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2000-10-04 | 21:06:56

Hideous day. On the phone with Stephen, complaining about how Duff, when I tell him I'm depressed and unhappy, goes deaf. Just then I get an e-mail from my boss complaining about my missing deadlines: "We have simply got to get this on time. Can you make this happen?" I write back,

No, I can't. I'm sorry.

So just like that, I have quit my job. My favorite one. The book review. Because in spite of dunking much of my identity in it, I still can't do it right. I don't do anything right. There is nothing I do that I can be proud of. I go to bed at night exhausted, aching, anxious, yet I am a lousy editor, a failed writer, a terrible manager, a dreadful mother, and an indifferent friend. My house is a pigsty and I can't even cook very well. Have been walking around like a zombie all day. Joe wrote back:

I mean, is it the book review or is it the limitations of your schedule? Do you think Maxine would take a crack at it? The way it's going, it's more trouble than it's worth. It's a fabulous product, but it's expensive, it's a hassle, and it's not selling well. Everybody loves reading it, but nobody likes much else about it. It's really frustrating.

Of course, I don't know how to answer this. Is it the thing I made that is deeply flawed, or is merely the way that I fail to do it properly? Gee, let me think. I don't even try to answer. I just quote the bit about Maxine and say "I don't know. You'll have to ask her yourself." I suspect Maxine isn't going to be able to turn it around, either, but I don't say that. I am in a passive-aggressive snit. She is my friend, I love her, but my pride is hurt. I won't say a word for her or against her. I am Switzerland.

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